


Accidents Happen

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bruises, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Exhaustion, Fever, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Geralt ignores Jaskier and that's bad, Geraskier, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Whichever floats your boat :), accidental but it's still there, but they're working on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23884657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: It happened so slowly that Jaskier didn't even notice at first.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 34
Kudos: 574





	1. Chapter 1

It happened so slowly that Jaskier didn't even notice at first. 

Ever since their fight on the mountain and subsequent makeup after the breakup, the bard was sure to watch his mouth. And his step. He didn’t walk on eggshells with Geralt, but neither did he antagonize him quite to the level he had before and always made sure to apologize sincerely when he did. Clearly, he had misinterpreted the witcher’s tolerance of him and tried to adjust his behavior accordingly. As friends should.

It was when he began flinching when he roared at him, lingering behind him on the trail, _not singing_ or even strumming his lute louder than a whisper, that he realized he’d unwittingly let it go too far. 

Geralt though, seemed glad of the change and more free with his praise and Jaskier knew he shouldn’t want for it but did all the same. More than anything, Jaskier longed to follow the witcher all around the continent, not even for new song material as he claimed, just for the chance to earn that smirk of approval, a heavy clasp on the shoulder. That wasn’t right. Friends didn’t--

Were they friends?

Jaskier thought back to the stilted apology.

Did it matter? 

Ungrateful. Greedy.

Couldn’t this be enough? 

To be fair, the beast caught them both by surprise though he knew Geralt would deny it. The call for Jaskier to get off the path, to duck, to hide, to _move_ came a beat too late and in a quarter rest’s span the bard was tossed aside to bounce off a tree, his only thought being that he was so glad his lute was safely stowed and he wasn’t wearing it across his back because surely it would have splintered, _he_ felt splintered and he knew it would only become worse when the adrenaline faded. He could still crawl, and did so with haste to take cover behind the very tree that had probably mortally wounded him. He could wait. He was good at waiting and it wasn’t very long once Geralt had his mind set. 

When he scrambled to his feet there was a spike of pain in his back and he was aware of a trickling warmth seeping through his chemise. Geralt had just finished wiping the black gore off onto the whatever it was’s coarse fur when, with a bit of a stretch, Jaskier bloodied his own fingertips straining behind him to feel the gash in the skin over his spine and between his shoulder blades. Shit.

Geralt was already checking on Roach, gentling her from the surprise attack and Jaskier was loath to interrupt but.

“Geralt?” The eye roll was expected. Of course, he always seemed to find a way to inconvenience the witcher. It was a skill. Truly. He held his hand out as evidence with what he hoped read as an apologetic expression. 

“Hmm.”

“Sorry!” Jaskier was slowing them down. Again. “Sorry, it’s just, I can’t reach.” Pack in hand, Geralt bade him to sit on a crumbling stump, yanking up his doublet, sticky and stained red, to examine the injury. 

"You’re going to bruise. The skin split but it’s a clean cut." Roughly, Geralt smeared a pungent salve over the whole area, grabbing his shoulder when he arched away. "There." Bandaged and watered, Geralt pulled him to his feet. "You'll live." When Jaskier didn’t speak, too focused on breathing through undulled agony, Geralt frowned. “Can you walk?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He wasn’t. But he’d live, as he’d been told. “Shall we?” Indicating the path, he started off gingerly until he could push it down and the medicine numbed the ache. 

“Geralt?” Gods he needed a break. Even just time enough to catch his breath and slow the strained pounding of his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d caught more than a few winks of sleep and he was dizzy with exhaustion and the throbbing in his back. “Can,” he panted, “can we pause just a moment?” 

“The farther we get with the light, the closer we get to real rest.” Jaskier nodded, though Geralt couldn’t see it, saving his breath. His entire back felt painful and stiff, echoing in spasms through even his legs, and he was disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to see what was surely a spectacular array of colors blooming like a field of bluebells. 

When they did finally stop, Jaskier declined food, opting for just a few swallows of water and flopping on his stomach for what seemed like the time it took for him to blink before they moved on.

“Geralt?” He’d been rebuffed before, earlier, but Jaskier was desperate. The wound on his back felt tight and hot, a sure sign of infection. But if he could hold out just a bit longer. It seemed each night they could rest less and less. It simply wasn't safe and the couldn't risk another ambush. A few mouthfuls of trail rations and a gulp of water were all Jaskier could manage before passing out, only to be shaken awake mere moments later to begin again. He wanted desperately to ask Geralt to check on the injury and belay his fears. 

To ask how he fared.

“I already told you. It’s not safe to stop here.” Jaskier swallowed his begging, swiping the back of his hand over a sweaty forehead. He felt caught between unbearably heavy and ethereally untethered, eyes flicking over the trees trying to follow the sprites weaving between the trunks. Geralt didn’t seem concerned so he tried to ignore their laughter and their attempts to trick him, to lure him away from the path. Their twittering sank into his ears until he couldn’t hear anything else and even covering them so tightly they hurt didn’t drown them out.

“Geralt. Geralt...I’m sorry.” Gasping, throat parched, Jaskier felt so ill, body one big ache, his skin so sensitive even the light brush of his clothes was like fire. He didn’t know how he’d made it even this far, only that he’d focused his tunneling vision on Roach’s flank, marching doggedly in rhythm with the sway of her hips. His lute was tied to her saddle. If he failed to follow Geralt he’d have nothing. But he’d promised to stop soon. Soon being a relative term that could mean at twilight tonight or dawn the next day. When he stumbled this time, he couldn’t get his legs to cooperate, to move beneath him, to lift him off the ground and his world narrowed to the ants crawling in the dirt, his panting breath disturbing their trails. Geralt’s booted footfalls made his head pound and he was lifted so abruptly by his upper arm and set to rights that he thought he would be sick then and there; stomach flipping dangerously. It would be all over the witcher and he was angry enough. With difficulty, he swallowed the salt pooling on his tongue. 

“This is selfish.” Jaskier tugged away, embarrassed of his human weakness. “We are exhausted as well; keep up, stop delaying us and we may see ourselves somewhere secure before tomorrow.” The bard couldn’t trust himself to speak lest he sob from hurt and frustration but he didn’t need to because Geralt turned on his heel and stalked angrily away to a patiently waiting Roach without looking back. 

Jaskier stood swaying, shaking, in the middle of the overgrown path, too spent to spend any energy on being upset. He was following Geralt. He had to keep up or he’d be left behind. Being left behind was wrong. The wrong thing to do so he would find him, he would keep up this time. Then he wouldn’t be so furious with him. He would be proud. If he kept up he would be proud of him even if he pretended otherwise. Jaskier wanted that so badly, wanted to be useful and strong and, and. 

And. 

He couldn’t remember after that. What he wanted. But he was alone. In the woods...where was his lute? Spinning in a circle made his head whirl and it took several weaving steps to regain his precarious grip on balance. He was usually so spry on his feet, it was strange to feel so disoriented. Had he been drinking? Is that why everything hurt and he couldn’t seem to stay upright? 

What had he been doing? Had Geralt packed up camp without him? Which way? It all looked the same to him and he didn’t have any witchery senses. But he was facing this direction. If he hurried, he could catch up.

Geralt was disappointed in the bard’s childish behavior, in his whining. It wasn’t as simple as stopping for a rest. Not when he had to pick out a safe path for the both of them while surrounded by foes and monsters alike. It wasn’t feasible to stop. Did he not think the witcher was tired? That even he would like nothing more than to lay down under a tree and sleep for a fortnight? 

And he thought he’d learned. He thought they both had. Things were better lately. Calmer. Jaskier didn’t try so adamantly to needle him as he did before. He’d stopped singing at all hours, kept his lute stowed and safe until he needed it for performances. Guilt clawed its way into his chest, seizing it. Things _were_ better. Not because Geralt had changed, but because Jaskier had. The effort was palpable, he could see it in the way the bard bit his witty tongue, when he played fewer songs about him, when he quit asking for minute details about his hunts, when he trekked for as long as he could before he gave in and asked for a break. And then walked farther because Geralt told him no. Apparently, one of them was incapable of change. He mulled it over. And over. Regretting his harsh words. He hadn’t meant them, not really. For as obnoxious as the Jaskier could be, he was never selfish. Indeed, Geralt can only remember him asking after his welfare and defending his name. 

“Jaskier. I.” He turned back to him, unable to find the words he needed to say, and hoped the answer would come when he met his eyes. 

But he was gone. 

It was so hard to keep moving and he couldn't seem to get nearly enough air into his lungs, each breath burning in his chest like poison. Stumbling and falling through the forest wasn’t doing his clothes any favors and his skin was littered in bloody scratches from forcing his way through thorny brush, convinced Geralt had come this way though he didn’t know why. 

Where was he? Jaskier pushed roughly past a thicket and tangled vines, foot slipping on the bark of a downed tree to go tumbling head over heels all the way to the bottom of a deadfall. 

Woozy, Jaskier tried to force himself up, violently sick when a pain in his arm crescendoed. It wouldn’t move right. Something was wrong. Where was Geralt? Why wasn’t he here? High pitched ringing filled his head, lancing sharply from one ear to the other. 

Where was Geralt?

Had he left him here?

What had he done wrong? 

Thinking hurt, moving hurt. Sick again, stomach cramping, dry heaving because he had nothing left, not that he’d had much before. 

Where was he?

Where was Geralt? 

He was so tired.

Where was Geralt?

That fool. 

Had he simply sat down on the path to throw a tantrum? Refusing to budge and wasting even more time? Geralt paced the path, furious. He’d have to drag him out of here lest he be eaten by something far bigger than him. 

“Sorry, Roach. I know you’re tired.” She allowed him to turn her, smoothing a palm down her cheek before heaving himself into the saddle. “Let’s fetch our wayward bard.”

He was sure this is where he’d last seen him. The soil had been scuffed by what looked like unsteady feet and that generated the first pang of guilt low in his stomach. Jaskier had pushed himself hard lately and was clearly at his limit. A limit Geralt consistently ignored. He would have thought the bard finally left him if it wasn’t for the fact that he still had his lute. 

Fuck. 

Jaskier’s scent, muddied and dull, darted off into the forest and through thick undergrowth where Roach could not go. He would have to leave her here and hope that he hadn’t made it far. He had half a mind to abandon the search since the bard insisted on being so difficult. 

They did not have time for this. 

The second pang came when it became clear that Jaskier wasn’t walking in a straight line, instead weaving back and forth, erratic and uncaring that he was scratching himself up by shoving his way bodily through the brush. Iron tipped thorns, slipped over leaves, clogged Geralt’s nose with it’s cloying permeance.

The third pang, the worst because it was paired with panic, hit hard and fast when he spotted the bard’s strawflower blue doublet at the bottom of a rough fall. From here he couldn’t be sure Jaskier was even alive and he skidded down, down, down, falling to his knees to run his hands over the prone body checking for breaks, twisting up his face at the sour smell of sick. Jaskier was burning up, blazing through even his clothes and when the only major injury he found was a dislocated shoulder, Geralt attempted to wake him, a cool sweep of relief rushing through him when dark eyelashes struggled apart. 

“Did I fall asleep?” So slurred it was almost unintelligible, exhaled on a ragged breath. “Sorry, I’ll get up. Sorry.” He tried to get his arms under him, crying out when his shoulder shifted. 

“No. Jaskier, stay still.” The bard shook his head, scraping his cheek against one of the dead trees he was sprawled over on his stomach. “Jaskier--”

“I’m ‘wake.” 

“Hush, I know. You’re doing exactly what I need you to do.” Shit. “Relax.”

“Mm.” 

“Good, just like that.” He’d have to lash his arm down and he had nothing to do it with. Accept the doublet. “This will hurt. Just for a moment.” Geralt kept up his nonsense, trying to distract, soothing when he slipped the injured arm out of the ornate cuff, relieved when he passed out. 

It was clear the chemise was ruined, stiff and a stain the color of rust fading into yellow. The bandages beneath were filthy with new and dried blood. Why hadn’t he checked on him? He knew he’d been injured and now, through the linen, he could feel the heat, smell the reek, of infection. There was nothing he could do about it here. 

When he shifted him, tying the sleeves tight around him to immobilize his shoulder, Jaskier groaned.

“Did I fall asleep?” The confusion and repetition worried him. “Don’ feel well.”

“I know, I know.” Geralt barely had warning enough to tip Jaskier to the side when he was sick again, retching miserably and eyes shut tight in pain. 

“...Sorry...I’m sorry.” Stomach seizing again, Jaskier whimpered miserably, writhed as he tried to escape the agony hitting him from all sides, “din’t mean to.” 

“I know, It’s all right, bardling, hush.” What kind of monster was he that the bard felt the need to apologize for being ill?

“Fell ’sleep.” His head lolled, landing on Geralt’s shoulder and he panted heavy. “Are you angry with me?” Impossibly small, so sorrowful, and somehow accepting. Geralt’s heart was lodged in his throat. Gods, how had he hurt him this badly, again?

“No. You had a fall, no one’s fault. Just an accident.” He braced himself to lift him. “This will hurt, lark.” Unconscious, he didn’t need the warning.


	2. Chapter 2

Without the mage, Jaskier would have died. Even with, lasting damage was still possible and Geralt would never forgive himself if he'd cost Jaskier his ability to play the lute. Luckily, the inn was small and clean, the staff helpful and kind. 

“He needs rest.” Geralt nodded, exchanging the coin for potions and tinctures and the service of saving his bard’s life. “Calm. Quiet. I don’t need to explain to you how close he came.”

Still, Jaskier was very sick, the bruising across his back extensive and deep, the laceration red and angry, the fever that crushed him relentlessly in its grip all encompassing. He was laid out on his belly, flushed cheek sinking into the softest pillow Geralt could find, partially healed arm tucked beneath him. Gaunt and pale, the color swept under his eyes was dark and bold. Even before he’d been hurt. Even before he’d fallen, he’d been run into the ground and all the excuses the witcher made before seemed diminished compared to the destruction he’d unwittingly wrought. The poultice Geralt applied to Jaskier’s back over a warm cloth smelled strongly of onion and he knew that the bard would protest it heavily, if only he were awake to take notice. 

“I’m sorry, songbird.” Gently, Geralt settled his palm over his ear, stroking a thumb over his sweaty temple. 

Somehow he’d lost him again.

He fell asleep, dragged down by exhaustion and stress, only to wake late into the next morning to find Jaskier gone. Geralt nearly wrenched the door from its hinges in his haste, barraling downstairs and frightening every patron with his unkempt hair and wild eyes. 

“Where is he?” He was met with wary confusion from the customers as the barmaid appeared by his elbow, drawing his frayed attention with a soft touch.

“Master Witcher.” She tugged him behind the counter, back to a storeroom. “He wandered down here early this morning, confused.” Jaskier was curled up on his side, laid out on a thin bedroll, hugging his lute like that day so long ago. “He insisted he needed to perform, that you needed the coin.” She knelt next to him, running her fingers through his hair. “Master Bard?” Turned back to Geralt, “he’s still feverish. I’ll have some cool water sent up later after you settle him.” She murmured sweet nothings, coaxing him gently from deep sleep and the jealousy rearing its ugly head surprised Geralt with its intensity. 

“M’sorry…” voice heavy with fatigue, Jaskier pried glassy eyes open to meet distracted gold, face twisting up when he misread the witcher’s expression. “Geralt.” Delayed, too weary to hide as he once would, the bard somehow worked up the shadow of a grin. “Don’ worry. Can still play.” Brilliant blue rolled up behind lashes fluttering like moth’s wings and Geralt bundled his small weight up close, vowing to feed him up when he was well again. 

“I’ll be back for his lute.” 

“Where are you off to, songbird?” The bard sat trembling on the edge of the mattress, holding himself up with both arms and looking one stiff breeze from toppling over. Geralt cupped a flushed cheek, dismayed when Jaskier didn’t seem to notice. Despite his best attempts, the fever refused to break, leaving him wrung out and weary and altogether absent. “Jaskier?”

“Time t’go.” 

“Where, little lark?” Geralt implored softly, already knowing the answer. They’d been over it before and the cracks in his stone heart widened more each time. 

“Been here t’long.” Swallowing hard, Jaskier swayed, struck dizzy as he so often was, and Geralt braced him with a hand on his bony shoulder, still tender from his tumble but the smaller man didn’t flinch from his touch. 

“It’s all right, we can stay.” He stood abruptly and Geralt had to catch him before he hit the floor, lowering them both carefully down. Restless, Jaskier shifted in the loose hold, eyes moving wildly beneath lids struggling to remain parted. 

“Geralt’s a furlong down the road b’now.” As though he were whispering to himself, becoming more and more upset, more and more frustrated with his unresponsive body. 

“Rest, sparrow, you need to rest, it’s all right.” No amount of soothing calmed him, no number of assurances reached beyond that delirious haze. Not until he wore himself to the point of collapse, warm breath panting against Geralt’s pulsepoint, and blinked up at him in vague recognition. 

“Geralt?” Almost hidden under the acrid scent of illness a thread of distress and anxiety began to build until it almost overwhelmed him. “I’I can fix this. I can do this _right_.”

“Oh, bardling, there’s nothing to fix. I promise you.” Jaskier’s frantic rambling was almost unintelligible, wretched in its sincerity, and the witcher felt his heart break at the depth of the insecurity he’d dug cruelly into his compani--friend, without even the intention. The salt tang in the air was the first indication of his near silent weeping. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry, Geralt,” breath hitching with the force of his sorrow, Jaskier tried desperately to stop, gulping great lungfuls of air but not getting enough.

“You’re all right, hush now, this isn’t good for you.”

“No, tell me, please, what can I do?” Raspy pleading, voice burned up with the rest of him, the beat of his rabbit-quick heart echoed in Geralt’s blood, frantic, frightened, and Jaskier had never been frightened of him before. Panic rose in a wave, cresting over the both of them and sweeping them up in the tide to break over a rocky shore. It was too much, far, far too much, and in a moment of weakness Geralt cast Axii, relishing the way Jaskier relaxed in his arms, calm and quiet, breath slowing, face tucked into the crook between neck and shoulder. Geralt wrapped the bard up, his larger bulk shielding him, protecting him, damp tear tracks that didn’t belong to him drying on his skin. 

Jaskier burned. Writhed under the cool swathes swept over his blistering face, fractions of relief overwhelmed by the deep ache in his skin that nothing could touch, his bones charred to ash and slipping through grasping, clawing, covetous hands that could never be satisfied with what they were given. Selfish. Greedy. Ungrateful. Careless ingrate, how could you think that Geralt would ever associate with you and your dramatic whinging and whining and begging and, and. _And_ Your fault. This is your fault. 

“Your fault.”

“No.” 

You deserve this, every bit of it. A shred, a sliver, a scrap, of what you do to him. What you force him to put up with, you wretched, clutching creature worth so little, so little. Always holding him back with this rapacious _need_. Can’t you pull yourself together for one damn moment and give him some peace? Peace, it’s what he wants, what he deserves for even daring to come close enough for Jaskier to snare him in this spiderweb ruse. 

Not even kind enough to free him from this.

Geralt bathed his bard’s face, neck, collarbone, with a damp cloth, generous in his attempts to comfort him, murmuring things he’d only ever said to Roach with sincerity as the human under his hands struggled to breathe, gasping, restless, weighted down by weakness and moving fitfully. He was rambling, mumbling things that frightened even the witcher and nothing Geralt said seemed to make it through to him. There were times between bursts of agitation when Jaskier went too still, chest barely rising, periods of quiet where Geralt was torn between running for the mage and keeping hold of his wrist to track a thready pulse. At one point after too long a spell, he clung to limp fingers, pressed them to his lips and closed his eyes to focus his hearing on the subdued rhythm buried beneath sweat, skin, and sinew.

The witcher’s vulnerability couldn’t stand up to the scrutiny of the poet's consciousness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier blinked, awake, lucid and awake, for only the second time in as many days, still sifting through what was real and what was not. He had, hadn’t he? Geralt helped him smear that awful, stinging salve over it, helped dress it. Hadn’t he? “That you were ill.” The witcher clarified. Oh. Well. He had tried, hadn’t he? Had he? The last stretch of significant time was a mess of sounds and colors and painful sensations. “Jaskier?” Head still swimming and body still sore, he twisted up his brows in remembering and came up with only the powerful memory of wanting so badly to rest and being denied. 

“I asked for a break?” Was that the answer he wanted? Gods, he couldn’t think, couldn’t parse the expression on Geralt’s face. He was so tired he ached inside and out. Could he rest now? He was already in a bed. Or did the witcher want to move on? They must have wasted days now, and so much coin. But he was so, so, so tired. So tired he could sob for permission to sleep if he thought it would do any good at all. “Geralt?” His yellow eyes hadn’t shifted from his face and his mouth was set in a powerful frown. Disappointment. And he wanted to please him, wanted to remove that hard expression by getting up like he knew he should. But the mere thought of having to somehow shift off this mattress was enough to have him start to panic, torn between two wants and knowing he could have only one. “Geralt? I’m tired.” Jaskier settled for a statement, hoping it was safer. Hoping he’d get an answer and be done with all this unknown. He shivered, sick with it, the not knowing, losing a growing battle with heavy, lead-lined lashes. Between one blink and the next, the witcher disappeared. 

At least now he knew.

Geralt wanted to shout. To roar. To take out his frustration on something. So he’d left. Before he could take it out on Jaskier. Poor, sick, confused Jaskier who had asked and asked for some small measure of rest and got it by nearly killing himself in a fall. With a raging infection that by all accounts he should never have survived. He should have explained that he was hurting. That something was wrong before it got that far. The fever settled beneath his skin could have heated a bath. How was Geralt supposed to know it was more than his usual complaining? 

That wasn't right. He was just a pathetically easy target to blame. It wasn't Jaskier's fault Geralt couldn't think about anyone but himself. Couldn’t see far enough outside of himself to even remember how far he’d made him walk wounded like that. _Sick_ like that. Knowing that if he failed to keep up, Geralt might leave him to die alone in those woods. But it had been days. The bard's voice, his tone, haunted him, the thread of desperation and fear ringing clear as a bell in hindsight. He'd been frightened, and rightfully so, considering he had to wait so long for his condition to grow so poor just to be chastised. Thrown away. 

Again.

He left the inn, walked stiffly to the stables, and let the scent of horse and hay calm his frayed nerves. This was why he’d sent the bard away the first time. He wasn’t good at taking care of people, that wasn’t his job. 

“Isn’t it?” He could see Jaskier in his mind’s eye, hale and healthy if a bit travel worn, shoving a potato in his mouth and speaking around it. “I mean, you kill monsters who kill people.”

“It’s different, Roach.” 

“Is it?” 

“I nearly killed him.” He tangled fingers into her mane and she lipped at his shirt. “It wouldn’t have taken me long. If I’d just listened.” Zeroing in on the thudding of her heart, Geralt let it calm him. He was no good to anyone angry, that he’d proved enough. “Why don’t I listen?” 

“What do you need?” 

“Ah? No, I’m fine. Just a dizzy spell.” Geralt resisted the urge to growl. This was his fault. It was his fault Jaskier stopped communicating his needs. And oh, how small they were in retrospect. 

“You can tell me.” A benevolent smile, one he felt he never deserved again, brightened his pale and weary face. 

“I’m quite well. Don’t worry about me.” When he hefted the lute, he turned the stagger into momentum to carry him over the threshold. “Is Roach all ready? She earned this apple, don’t you think?” He carried on, taking the stairs slowly but steadily, grinning at the innkeeper’s wife and leaving a tip, the rest of his coin, on the bar to “make up for the trouble, fine lady.” Geralt followed behind, noting the bard’s shortness of breath when he stopped to give Roach her treat. Chuckling, he swiped his hand on his doublet to rid it of her spit. “There’s a good girl.” Petting her velvet nose, he moved to tie his lute to the saddle before pausing and looking to Geralt for permission. He freely gave it, ashamed Jaskier felt he even needed to ask. 

He waited for him to ask. Jaskier’s steps grew heavier and clumsier with each passing moment, but he kept his mouth shut, humming snatches of melody and walking along to the beat he created. It was a habit, wasn’t it? One Geralt hadn’t realized he’d developed. A way to focus on something other than the ache in his legs, the fatigue weighing him down. Until he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Geralt felt it more than heard. It was a thickening of the air between them. Uneasiness put there by Jaskier as he worried over whether or not he should ask or take his chances and hope Geralt stopped soon. What good even would it do if he were to ask? Time and experience taught him that it didn't matter. That he didn't matter. 

“Do you need to stop for the night?” Wide, cornflower blue stared at him, the surprise set deep. It was barely twilight. He had treated this man so badly. For nothing. Over fear unfounded. 

“N’no. No. I’m fine. We can go a little longer.” He strode past him, breath forcibly even, but Geralt could smell the stress, the pain. Could see beads of sweat breaking over sallow, grey skin. He growled as though he had the right to be angry. 

“Jaskier.” Stopped.

“It’s _fine_ , Geralt.” He began to move again.

“I’m sorry.” The bard turned so quickly he nearly overbalanced, and paused, letting his mind catch up with the rest of him. “Jaskier.” He left the distance between them, could sense the unease, the confusion. How being unsure left him off kilter. He didn’t know Geralt’s rules, his expectations. He didn’t know what he wanted him to do or how to respond. 

“I don’t understand.” And he knew he didn’t. Geralt had abused their relationship so readily it was no wonder Jaskier was suspicious. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen.” Jaskier laughed, it was forced. 

“Is that all?” No, it isn’t. “I complain all the time.” He turned, walked, waved his hand lazily in the space near his ear. Dismissive. “How were you to know this time it was real?” And it hurt the witcher deep to know that he’d placed that doubt there. To hear Jaskier put himself down. Every time was real. He always pushed him further but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. It didn’t mean his strength wasn’t real. 

“Wait.” It was a command, frustrated, and he cursed himself for the way it made the man flinch. “Please. You’re tired.” Jaskier’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“That doesn’t usually matter.”

“I know.” He wouldn’t turn back to face him. 

“Why does it matter now?”

“Because I was wrong.” 

“I neither want nor need your pity.” Stony, upset.

“I shouldn’t have.” Gods. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like you couldn’t.” What? Be human? Show weakness? Be a normal man, with normal strength, and normal abilities. “I want to do better.”

“Oh.”

“I want you to trust me.” This time when Jaskier whirled on him, Geralt was there to steady him, but stepped back when the man shrugged out of his grip.

“Geralt! I do!”

“I know. But I want you to trust. That I care. For your wellbeing.” 

“You walk the path, Geralt. I can’t be in the way. I know that. I don’t take offense.” Jaskier looked defeated, alone. Small in the middle of the road. “If anything, it was my own stubbornness. I could have stopped. Gone back to an inn. Something. I don’t know.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. Friends.” He breathed, deep, scented lingering illness in the air. “Friends care for each other.” Tentative, he stepped closer. “You make room for me in all my gruffness. I should do the same for you.” The bard chuckled without mirth, hooded eyes cast down and away.

“You don’t have to. What I give, I give freely. I don’t expect anything from you in return, Geralt.” What was meant to soothe, only stung that soft hidden place where his affection for Jaskier took up so much room he was no longer capable of denying it. Watery blue snapped up when Geralt took his shoulders carefully, lightly, so he could know he could break away if he so chose. 

“I will do better.” Geralt placed his hand on the side of his neck, stroked his jaw once with a calloused thumb. “I will try because you are important to me.” Jaskier swallowed, he could feel it against his palm along with the delicate trembling, the effort to remain standing. Something would break this stalemate, Geralt wanted desperately to prevent it being Jaskier. So he steered him as he would a skittish horse, gentle, slow, calm enough that he might not notice what was happening and holding his gaze until he was seated on a fallen log and the breath rushed out of his lungs with the tension of pretending.

“Geralt--” The witcher kneeled before him, took in the tight lines of pain replacing his grin, the shivering instead of boundless, vibrating energy, shadows beneath eyes that glimmered not with amusement but with the remnants of fever. What had he done to his beautiful bard?

“You’re tired.” Embarrassed, Jaskier pressed his lips together, looked away, and Geralt coaxed him back. “There’s no shame in this.” Agonizing, the question in his open, exhausted face undid him. “The shame is mine, Jaskier.” When he made to protest, Geralt hushed him, bade him sit a moment while he readied camp. The bard was liquid in his arms when he helped him to his feet and waited for him to find his bearings, slim though they were, and laid him gently down, passing a hand above unfocused eyes to test the heat there, pleased when Jaskier drifted almost immediately away. 

“I fell asleep.” Some stretch of time later, the last vestiges of day clinging to the trees, and Jaskier rubbed away the dreams as he sat up, wincing when the action made the pain in his back flare. 

“Hmm.”

“Sorry,” sheepish, falsely playful, but his scent spoke for him, sour with worry. “I know you’ve been itching to get back on the road and I keep mucking it up."

“There is no rush.” Jaskier’s lips twitched up into the barest hint of a fragile smile, as though he didn’t know whether to believe it or not. There was a broken trust here, and Geralt was going to need to put in the work to fix it. “Here, should help the ache.” Strong, warm tea was placed in his grip, those larger hands waiting until he was sure Jaskier’s would hold. “Some food next and I’ll see to your back.” The bard almost dropped the bowl in surprise, stuttering. 

“Y’y’you don’t have to,” this was all much too fast. “I’m sure it’s quite well.” 

“I’d still like to see for myself.” Like I should have before, went unsaid and Geralt was prepared to accept a negative response even if it was clear to anyone with eyes that Jaskier was hurting. “If you’d let me.” He passed him a serving of stew and, ravenous, the bard dug into it, passing it back for a second helping and beaming like the sun when Geralt smirked over the fire at him. 

It was so normal it stung.

Stiff under his hands, both from the blood like ink still pooled beneath skin and the uncertainty Geralt placed in him with months of casually callous treatment, Jaskier flinched when he touched him, groaning at the twinge, and forcing himself to settle. 

“I’m checking the bruise.” 

“Hmm.” 

“It was bone-deep, it’ll hurt for a while.” He removed his hands and seconds later a damp heat spread over his back. “This should help.” 

“Gods...that is divine.” Jaskier moaned, melted into the bedroll, every last bit of stress draining from his entire body as it was enveloped in the scents of lemon and lavender. 

“I am sorry, Jaskier. Truly.” 

“You are taking advantage of this witchery, I’ll have you know.” He sighed deeply, sinking somehow further. “Laying me low like this. Completely at your mercy.” Even if he was only teasing, it struck a chord too real. 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Oh, darling.” Sympathetic. “I know.” He reached out, tangling their fingers together, squeezing. “I know you didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” How this human could forgive so easily was beyond his ken. It made no sense. “Now, stop thinking so loud and warm this again for me.” Drowsy and content, eyes half lidded and far away. 

“Of course, liege.” Geralt shook his head, smiling just a little, puzzled and perplexed, more so even than the day they first met.

He wouldn’t let him down again.


End file.
